


Bright Lights and Acclimation

by Aeolist



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolist/pseuds/Aeolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose stares, her mouth hanging open just slightly. “Your accent’s really different.” </p><p>He shoots her a look, up and down, then shrugs again.</p><p>She hazards a grin at him. “Lots of planets have a South London?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Lights and Acclimation

“Ouch!”

 

Rose stumbles into her mum’s dark flat, nearly slamming the door on her own wrist as she simultaneously tries to close the door behind her and pull out the key. She curses under her breath, then says ‘fuck’ a bit louder and giggles at the sound of it.

 

Jamming her keys into her pocket, she faces the dark room. She’s groping for a light switch when the room abruptly illuminates and the Doctor - this new man who’s still him, somehow - is sprawled out on the sofa, watching her with raised eyebrows, the sonic screwdriver in the air. She looks at the light switch on the wall; it’s off. The lights are on anyway.

 

“I can smell the alcohol from here,” he says, giving the air a sniff. “Ethanol, same as the fuel, you know. Think you’ve had enough to power a small automobile. A scooter, at least.”

 

“Vroom,” she says, leaning against the wall and toeing off her trainers. She stubs her toe against the door jamb and loses a sock in the process. When her feet are bare, she looks up again at the strange, brown eyes across the room.

 

They’re both silent for a moment until he speaks, voice a bit scratchy.

 

“Did you end up going to a friend’s house, or...?”

 

“Mm,” Rose says, placing one foot in front of the other until she’s standing next to the sofa. “Went to Keisha’s. Her fit brother wasn’t there; he’s in the navy now. Thought he’d be home for Christmas. Shareen was there, though. And Mickey, of course. He brought Trisha. She glared daggers at me all night.”

 

“So, to get away from her, you hid in the punch bowl?”

 

She laughs. “Nobody drinks punch. And I’m not that drunk. Shift.”

 

He pulls himself into a seated position, patting the cushion next to him. She flops down, leaning her head back against the back of the sofa and staring at the ceiling.

 

“Tired?”

 

“Nah, s’not that late. What’re you doing here? Reckoned you’d still be getting the TARDIS ready to go. If I knew you’d be free, I wouldn’t’ve gone out.” She lifts her head, tries to focus her eyes on him. He’s blurry.

 

“Oh, er… She won’t let me in.” He rubs at the back of his neck and the gesture’s new, but it fits. “Healing and all that. From the crash, and the teleporting, and the… the regeneration, as well.”

 

“Mum knows you’re here?”

 

He chuckles and points the sonic at the coffee table, where Howard’s jim jams are folded neatly and stacked alongside a small blanket, a clean towel, and a flannel. Next to those, an empty mug, several used teabags, and an open box of still-yet-more-tea sit on one plate, while a half-eaten piece of cheese on toast and a few Hula Hoop crisps sit on another.

 

“Blimey, she likes the new you, doesn’t she?” She leans forward forward, popping a Hula Hoop into her mouth. “She here, then?”

 

“Sleeping.”

 

“S’that why you’re sitting here in the dark?”

 

“I was thinking. That, and I didn’t want to disturb her. Lovely woman, but I’ve had enough for one night.”

 

She glances at him and a grin curls across her face as she watches his eyes shift away. “Is that right? What’d you two do, then? Watch EastEnders? Gossip about the neighbors?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“You did! Must’ve be driving you spare.” Rose laughs, shaking her head, until it starts to feel like it’s filled with liquid that’s sloshing around. He’s watching her, eyes dark and narrowed just slightly, and her breath catches when she meets his eyes.

 

“So, um. How long till we can leave, then?” She curls a piece of hair behind her ear.

 

“Could be a while. She’ll let me in soon - day or two, tops, but then I’ve got to recalibrate. Tweak one or two things. Maybe run some diagnostics. I can’t be sure what exactly the Sycorax transport did to the temporal stabilisers. That, and I may have singed the wiring. Know it damaged the time vector generator; that’s why we can’t get in. She’s not dimensionally transcendental while that’s offline. Held out till we got back, though, the tough old girl.”

 

Rose stares, her mouth hanging open just slightly. “Your accent’s really different.”

 

He shoots her a look, up and down, then shrugs again.

 

She hazards a grin at him. “Lots of planets have a South London?”

 

“Actually, yes. Twenty six Londons worth mentioning, and those’re just the ones where the accent would be similar.”

 

“Do you think we sound alike now?”

 

“Naah,” he says, scrunching up his nose.

 

Scooting closer, she grabs the cheese on toast and takes a bite, starting from the corner he hasn’t touched. In the process, she knocks a blue Christmas cracker crown from the coffee table and watches it flutter through the air, landing on the floor. She chews for a while and the cold, melted cheese and crunchy toast edges may be the best thing she’s ever tasted. Except...

 

They speak at the same time.

  
“Do you think we should get some chips--?”

 

“How long do you want to stay--?”

 

They stop.

 

“I’m hungry, is all,” she says after a moment.

 

“Yeah. That sounds great. Chips, it is.”

 

He stands, brushing toast crumbs and bits of Hula Hoop off of his trousers, and Rose watches as he takes a second to stretch. The suit highlights the long, lean lines of him, so different from the particular type of thin he’d been before. He catches her staring and offers a small smile, then his hand. She places her fingers in his and he grips it, pulling her gently into a standing position. Still, the movement’s enough to make her dizzy, to send her stumbling, and he catches her, his chest surprisingly sturdy in spite of his slim frame.

 

“Sorry,” she says.

 

He rubs circles into her shoulders where he grips her, keeping her steady. “You sure you’re okay? Don’t need to lie down?”

 

“I’m fine. Peckish, though.”

 

“The place around the corner still open?”

 

“Should be.”

 

“Still your favourite?”

 

She smiles. “Yeah.”

 

“Well, then, Rose Tyler,” he says, pulling her gently towards her shoes. “Let’s go.”

 

She slips on some backless moccasins that belong to her mother, leaving the trainers behind.

 

\--

 

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, as they walk into the chippie.

 

He heads to the counter and she stands near the door, watching the room. The neon lights hurt Rose’s eyes; the red checkered tablecloths and yellow booths seem to gleam even though, upon closer inspection, all of the surfaces look rather dull and just a little bit grimy. The smell of vinegar and salt and potato and watered-down bleach are enough to make her stomach growl with some hard-wired association between the mix of odours and the anticipation of delicious fried potato bits.

 

There’s no one else in the place, so she plops into an empty booth at random and fiddles with the bottle of vinegar on the table. A moment later, the Doctor joins her, placing a basket of chips, two cups of water, and a stack of napkins between them.

 

“You really have changed, paying for the chips.”

 

“Nah. Just figured I owed you for last time,” he says, and pops one into his mouth.

 

She watches him chew, transfixed by the slow up-and-down of his jaw. Somehow, in spite of all that is different, that is the same.

 

“Well? Go on. Dig in.” He pushes the basket closer to her.

 

She plucks a choice specimen out of it and takes a bite, frowning when she realizes she forgot to pour some vinegar onto it. She holds the remaining bit of the chip in front of her, over the table, and tries her best to pour a bit on top of it without making a mess. She fails, but the chip’s good. When she looks up, he’s watching her with a little smile, like he’s about to shake his head at what a stupid ape she’s being.

 

“What?” she asks, grabbing another and holding it over the table as she pours some vinegar on. “You don’t like vinegar on your chips and you only got us the one basket.”

 

The corner of his lips turn down and his eyebrows raise up as he jerks his chin to the side. “Might like them now. New tastebuds.”

 

He leans forward and takes the bottle from her, hand gentle, pinkie swiping against her index finger as she releases it. Touching his tongue to his top lip, he says, “Let... me... see.”

 

After he pours a liberal amount over half the chips, he takes one and puts the whole thing in his mouth.

 

He gives another tiny jerk of his head, face contemplative. “Not bad.”

 

Rose’s throat feels dry against the starch and salt and she looks down at the table, at the condensation gathering on the sides of the styrofoam cup, before pulling it towards her.

 

The Doctor, meanwhile, grabs a chip from the non-vinegar-side. “Still. Better without.”

 

She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, leaning forward and capturing the straw in her mouth. The water’s cold; too cold, really, and she starts to feel it in her forehead and between her eyes until she realizes she can just stop drinking. She grabs a chip from the vinegar side instead.

 

When she looks up at him again, he’s fidgeting in his seat, digging a hand into an interior pocket of what is, admittedly, a marvellous new trench coat (leather wouldn’t be quite right, it wouldn’t) until he extends his hand. Two small capsules lay in his palm.

 

“It’s not aspirin, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not that daft,” he says, then reconsiders. “Well, I may be that daft. But I’ve only had a few hours to start filling these pockets up.”

 

She looks at his palm, then his face, then his palm again.

 

“It’s paracetamol. You should take it now, while you’ve got something in your stomach, so you don’t get a headache later.”

 

Her mouth forms a little ‘o.’ Reaching forward, she grabs the pills from his hand and downs them with just a sip of her water. She looks up and finds him giving her a soft smile, the expression utterly different from the way he smiled before, and yet… not. They eat in silence for a few moments, until the chips start to go cold.

 

“Can you control it?”

 

“What?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth full.

 

“How you look. What you sound like. Whether you like your chips with vinegar.”

 

He swallows his bite. “No. Not… not consciously, anyway. Some Time Lords could.”

 

“Why not you?”

 

He frowns. “It requires… discipline. Calm. My regenerations haven’t usually been very peaceful.”

 

“You’ve done this more than once, then?”

 

He puts his elbows on the table and folds his arms, looking up at the neon lights. “Nine times now? Give or take.”

 

“Blimey.” She leans forward, mirroring his posture. “And you look different every time?”

 

“Well.” He shrugs. “A bit. Not very, in the grand scheme.”

 

“And sometimes you like chips with vinegar, or maybe just salt, or maybe ketchup--?”

 

“Suppose. It’s not like I’ve kept a log going of how I take my chips.”

 

“You don’t decide consciously to look how you do?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Cause... you’re a bit pretty, aren’t you?”

 

“Er…”

 

“Reckon you wouldn’t’ve wanted to look like this, before.”

 

He leans back, adjusts his tie. “Dunno. It’s growing on me.”

 

“You change, and you just start liking -- vinegar on chips, being pretty?”

 

“I might.”

 

“And you... you can stop liking other things, too, yeah?”

 

“Not the important stuff,” he says, leaning forward again, voice ardent. “That stays the same.”

 

She takes his words in, letting the hum of the fluorescents steal her attention, until she shifts in her seat, looking him up and down. “And what. You just change instead of dying? Over and over? Knew you were old, but I didn’t realize you were immortal too.”

 

“Oi! I’m… the equivalent of thirty, in Time Lord years. Maybe. Tops. And I’m not immortal.”

 

“Then what.”

 

He purses his lips and she notices a dimple in his cheek: definitely a bit pretty.

 

“I get twelve, total. Twelve regenerations.”

 

“And you’ve done nine.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“So, you’re, what, 30-in-Time-Lord-Years but you’ve run through three quarters of your lives? Is that right? Nine out of twelve, that’s three quarters, innit?”

 

“It is,” he says, voice neutral, eyes trained on her.

 

“And how long were you - the way you were, before? How long did that one last?”

 

He looks away, clenching his jaw even tighter. “Since… not long before we met.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“And the one before that?”

 

“Longer.”

 

“Good. Stop going through ‘em so fast.”

 

He laughs, a real, enthusiastic ‘ha,’ and grabs a cold chip, biting off half of it. “Rose Tyler.” He shakes his head. “Comes with the territory, I’m afraid. Don’t worry. I intend to stay in this body for a long time.”

 

“And-- it was the Daleks, that did that to you? Made you change? What, did you get shot or something?”

 

“Not… exactly,” he says, brushing off his hands.

 

“Then what?”

 

“It’s getting late.”

 

Her eyes dart up to him. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

 

He nods to himself, looking down at the table, and sticks a hand into his hair. “I am.”

 

“So stop it and tell me.”

 

“I will.” He moves the hand to the back of his head, his hair succumbing to disarray, and Rose can’t tear her eyes away from the motion. “I will.”

 

“Well? Go on.”

 

“Soon. I’ll tell you soon. Not tonight, not while you’re--”

 

“What, pissed? Told you, I’m not that drunk.”

 

“Soon, okay?”

 

“Promise?”

 

He nods again, this time at her. “Promise.”

 

“You’d better.” She grabs a napkin and wipes her fingers off, then leaves it on the table to soak up the vinegar she’d spilled. “Don’t you think I’ll go forgetting about this.”

 

“‘Course not. You’re not that drunk.”

 

“I’m not.” She scoots most of the way out of the booth, standing on one leg, one knee still on the bench. She points at him. “Anyway, I was thinkin’ about this before I went out. So I don’t need to remember to ask you about it again.”

 

“I did promise, Rose.”

 

“Yeah, you did. Let’s go.” She leans forward, nearly losing her balance, and grabs at his sleeve, tugging him more in the direction of the table than the side of the booth.

 

Pulling her hand off of him, he twines their fingers and slides out in a smooth motion, making sure she gets safely onto two feet once he’s standing.

 

“Come on, then, miss-not-very-drunk. Let’s get you to bed.”

 

“Didn’t say I was tired,” she says, peering up at him.

 

“Home, at least?”

 

She bites her lip, grin spreading across her face. “Yeah, all right, then.”

 

\--

 

There’s no wind on the walk back, no people on the street besides the Doctor and Rose, and the silence is disrupted only by the occasional passing car. His hand around hers serves for reassurance more than ambulatory support, and between the feel of it there, the stillness of the air, the glow of the street lamps, and the alcohol fading from her system, she very nearly feels warm. Soon, they’re unlocking the door to the flat, her entrance decidedly quieter this time around.

 

She flicks the light switch on without any great effort and releases his fingers. Their hands part with a bit of a tug and she returns to the sofa before he can make another pitch for the bed. Following quietly, he stares down at her for a second before removing his trench, laying it on a nearby chair, and sitting next to her.

 

“A bit bright, do you think?” he asks, pulling out the sonic and dimming the lights.

 

“Now you’re just showing off.”

 

“Usually.” He grins, then leans forward, grabbing the remote and turning on the television. Tugging the blanket towards them, he drapes it mostly over her legs until Rose spreads it out over his, too, with a grin and a tacky attempt at a wink.

 

Infomercials and boring, old movies seem to be the only options, so he leaves it on some channel at a low volume and sits back. Rose watches him: the shadows playing over his face in the dim light, the occasional bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, and, finally, the way his eyes shift over to hers as he notices. She moves closer and slowly rests her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

 

“S’not so different, I suppose,” she says, after a second. “This, and how you were.”

 

“No?”

 

“Nah. Though I reckon you might’ve called watching a movie with me on my sofa ‘domestic,’ before. Would’ve run screamin’ back to the TARDIS, slept on its doorstep if you had to.”

 

“Oh, it is domestic. Absolutely.”

 

“And?”

 

“Well, suppose it’s a bit like how I look, now.”

 

“How’s that? Watching a movie on my sofa’s pretty, is it?”

 

“Nah. Meant it’s growing on me.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“How long--” He stops. “Did you want to stay a while? After she’s fixed? If you-- needed more time to… adjust, I’d understand.”

 

“Nah,” she says. “Ready when you are.”

 

He says nothing, but uses his free hand to smooth the blanket, letting the low voices and flickering of the television wash over them.

 

“You let me know if you feel queasy,” he says after a moment, even as he raises his arm to let her burrow in and place her head against his chest instead. “Don’t want you mucking up my new suit. Don’t think I’ve even got a second one.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Only if you try to sleep.”

 

“Mm. Fine.” She leans into him until she can stretch her legs out a bit behind her and sighs as he starts to rub patterns against her arm and shoulder. It’s only a moment before she drifts off. He’s awake for a long time after.

 


End file.
